The train passed the border and in the special way of Canada to preserve apocalypse in its nascent form the border guard herself rode with us, criticizing our American teas, and recommending against carrying them over, which we did anyway, into the theater troupe—who we had met—and their performance.

I mean it was a well organized thing in its own right—me and my two girlfriends (was it me, or another man?)--

But the performance—the border guard took part and she was not ashamed that she had the smallest breasts of all the dancers for she was the most desperate and abandoned of speakers, a banshee come to earth to sing of her love for men, now all lost.
 
Perhaps not a banshee, then, for she was all earth and nothing of any nether world or prison, except of flesh. Desire quenched. But still burning. She turned circles over her areoles with her hands as she sang the beautiful song for which the playwright had been given an award, and for which we had come.

The biggest nigger held a massive gun, the size of a soup can was the barrel. He grinned in the part where he killed his rivals, and his compatriots spoke of the size of his shoes in hushed tones—as though he had come from a race of giants.

Outside it was snowing, but very lightly. 

The finale was exquisite—the dancers all fled the hall—the hall well dressed and old fashioned and filled with us all impoverished—screeching and hollering, the lead man, my friend, totally nude in the manner of a rockstar, and the rest of the bacchanal flushed with heat, they ran up the stairs at the back into the light, while the blonde shrieked her desperate ballad.

Still I did not want to fuck her, which astonished me. I had a younger girlfriend hardly out of high school and we walked through the snow to look at the ducks, and we shared cigarettes with the homeless encampment. I did not know when the return train was coming; I suspected they would let us keep our American teas. Why had I brought so much?  I can no longer remember.

They were sorts of demons, those actors. A heroin binge—no, too much energy. Just divine energy. I wish I could remember the words, or the plot, but I’ve never been good with those things. I only remember the women’s breasts and their faces, and the shapes their bodies made on stage, which was nearly bare, except for the light. The audiences’ costumes were more elaborate than the actors—who were dressed nearly as cavemen, half nude and in furs and earth tones.

They did it for no money at all. We did not pay. We had not been sanctioned by the government—neither in the positive nor the negative sense—we were just extraordinarily well reviewed. How did I become so popular? Well I was popular then; I was young. And good looking. Maybe that isn’t it. I loved them is all, and they knew it. They needed love so desperately. 

One of my rivals asked my second girlfriend if she would pretend to be his girlfriend, just for the night or the week, since she lived in her shack alone by the river, but she told him “I don’t think so,” for she was waiting for me.

We walked back from the theater along the blasted black wood of the showhouse and listened to the wisdoms of the homeless encampment.

I could still hear the train in the distance.

I love you too, though I shouldn’t say. I am afraid, you see, of what is happening. What does it mean? And will I always be so desperate and alone? Let us hope so. It is better to given these things than to know security, I think. Otherwise those actors would never exist, in their pure and unadulterated abandon. They had no director. They had no theater house. But they had a writer, my friend.

The troupe—no, the band—but there is nothing else I can say. I do not want to poison it. I can still feel her hand in mine.

​

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.​​

“Ouch”, said my expression, although my lips didn’t utter that word.  A needle had been inserted into grandson Kevin’s vein to accommodate the squishy plastic bag’s flow through a tubing connected to that needle.  I pulled up a hard wooden chair, and uttered “Don’t think I’m going to let you beat me at Scrabble just because you’re hooked up to this thing!”
    He grinned with his mouth; his grin didn’t extend to his eyes.  In those, I saw a bravery he concealed well.  He realized I noticed, but that was one of our silent connections.
    “Okay,” I pushed the narrow tray-table between us, “we’ve 4 hours so it’ll be 4 games of Scrabble.  And I have to play upside down because of you!”
    The tech came by and handed me a cardboard card with the next appointment.  Kevin hadn’t even reached puberty.  The oversized upholstered chair, mimicking real leather, was too large for his frame.  My mind flashed to an unusual restaurant between Philadelphia and Atlantic City, New Jersey I’d been to with my offspring during a visit to that part of the country.  There was a very tall chair and my husband placed Kevin’s dad, then only five year’s old, on top of the step-ladder high seat; the child giggled.
    The infusion center wasn’t a fun restaurant; my thoughts returned to the present time. “Is that a real word Sounds made up just to use those letters!”  The softcover Scrabble dictionary was between Kevin’s seat and armrest.  I pulled it out to challenge him.  It was a valid word.  
    “And you’re the English teacher, Grandma,” he moved his head nodding slightly up and down.  His sense of humor was part of the person and not the patient with this massive dose of anti-inflammatory liquid slipping through veins.    
    His lips were tight against one another tying not to show me discomfort as the treatment ended with the needle being pulled from his tender vein.  Tape, over a cotton ball, covered the spot that would be assaulted again in six weeks, and repeated over and over and over and over. 
    At a prior session, he winced when his vein was missed several times in a row, and the inner arm began to swell rebelling from the tech’s inability to insert the needle correctly.  Still, with only that facial expression I caught (and the pain he endured for days until the swelling subsided) he didn’t cry out or spew words of anger or pity.    
    Blood tests seemed to be needed too often.  I’d take him for those, and planned something for him afterwards; same vein withdrew blood as accepted bags of medicine.  I began to notice his body language, and the way he paced waiting for his turn at the lab; he didn’t show anger, repressed any fear, but allowed me to view how he dealt with such by simply pacing.  Only later did we talk about this. 
    Later was already into years; the flow of the infusion was faster as his body had accepted the medicine so the time was shorter; I was also getting older and uncomfortable in the chair and joked, “You should sit in the little wooden one and trade places so I could have the padded plastic cushions, but you could keep the treatment as your veins are used to being punctured”.  The back of his hand was beginning to be serviced so the vein where the elbow bends could ‘rest’.  
    The larger version of Scrabble took two hours, and that gave us an hour to just talk. Kevin began insisting I rise, stretch, walk around the room once or twice.  He was taking care of me. 
    Middle school, high school, college, profession.  We talked about values and wants that differ from dreams.  I so hoped to see this man have someone to reach out for and whose very presence will make him feel safe, and vice versa, as I have with my husband.  
    The 2020 Pandemic ceased my in-person time but the treatments are ongoing; he telephones to tell me he’s okay.  2021, the Pandemic’s vaccine is similar to the effects of the flu annual shot:  helps with some strains, possibly prevents death, but the flu continues in humans.  But a good outcome of the stay-in-place world was his online correspondence with a local woman who, as it turned out, did her first couple of years of undergraduate school at the same university Kevin had attended.  While they’d never met there, they could talk about the campus with a common knowledge.  It was a beginning.
    Before 2022, he’ll have a day’s role as bridegroom.  My husband and I are quietly joyous.  knowing there is a real hand for bride and groom to hold in good and not-so-good future times. And if the global virus ever gets quiet enough that the infusion center allows other than only patients in, I will be unable to accompany him in person.
    Socrates said ‘you know yourself by watching yourself’.  I learned a lot about myself, from our uninterrupted scheduled time, watching this child grow into manhood because ot a squishy plastic bottle of solution that has kept his chronic condition in remission. I noticed his patience and understanding of what can’t be changed and how he will always deal with that.  He appreciated my respect with his confidential information, and my presence to make the procedure seem to pass a bit faster.
    “Ouch”, I looked at the calendar as I’m almost ready to remove another year. Same word but different association. I said this aloud in my house, and then smiled.

​

    "Mom," my daughter spoke into plastic circles that transmitted her voice through phone lines.  "Would you believe those tights you sent your grandaughter got a run?  Uh, huh.  What kind of crummy nylon is used for little girls' tights?" 
    I smiled, although no one could share either that or the memories of hosiery that flooded my mind:  

    The maple dresser drawer didn't slide easily.  I pulled one knob harder than the other to straighten out the drawer's now angled position, than yanked.  A pleasing scent of sachet rushed out.  "At least my clumsy dresser has a delicate smell," I addressed the contents and pulled out a pair of nylon stockings.  "And, at least this stupid war hasn't rationed sachet." 
    I looked up at the small silk flag affixed to a pane of glass on my bedroom window;  it signaled to onlookers that a loved one was overseas fighting in this big World War II.  Even though the war had recently ended, I left the rectangle in place.
    Hooking the cotton eyelet garter belt around my waist, I put my right toes into a stocking and began to move it up my leg.  It caught on a sliver of toenail that wasn't smoothed when I'd blunt-cut it and the stocking developed a run.
    With a long sigh, I muttered, "I should learn to roll the thing down, stick my foot it, then roll it up my leg.  I know I won't, though."  I shrugged my shoulders.  Holding the sheer item in my hand, I orated "To roll, or not to roll, that is the question."
    My mother was passing my room, heard a sort-of quote from "Hamlet", smiled, and finished the famous lines.  Then she suggested, "Wear it anyway, dear.  If someone notices, pretend you just got the run.  You're a good actress.  Next time, wear that runny one on the other leg or even reverse the stocking so the run will be in a different place."
    "I liked your rendition of Shakespeare better than this advice, mother.  Really."  I tossed my head showing irritation;  it was a movement exactly as I had done as a child.
    My mother looked at me, her girl-woman daughter:   pink satin bra with pink satin straps, the cotton eyelet wide part of the garter belt peeking through nylon underpants trimmed with lace, garters hanging helplessly against young and firm thighs.  Pale polish covered the exposed toes.
    I held the shaped stocking up deciding whether to throw it out or do what my mother suggested.
    "How could parachutes have been made out of these things!  Impossible.  I'd hate to drop out of a plane and have my life depend on such a flimsy piece of material."  I was irritated as I hadn't yet decided what to do with the hose.
    "Think before you speak," my mother whispered to herself, but I could make out her words.  "Don't tell her you wouldn't want her to drop out of a plane under any circumstances.  And don't give her a lecture on chemistry and how nylon is made."  Out loud, she spoke, "Lois, remember your heavy silk stockings before nylon came out?"
    I started to laugh and was embarrassed that I caught her 'private' musing.  She'd once told me that people in Europe sold themselves for a box of chocolate and sheer nylon hose;  I simply felt very dressed up in just anything that wasn't a cotton anklet.
    "Remember when daddy brought me a pair of nylons?  We held them up.  I even put on a glove to run my hand through so nothing would snag them.  Luxury.  Strong enough to save someone jumping from a plane.  Light enough for the possible jumper to carry on his back.  Sheer enough to see light through.  Man-made.  Silk was ordinary."
    "And made from worms," I quipped but really had caught my mother's words.
    "No more war.  Nylon is available and coming down in price.  You could get extra wear out of your hose, also, if you trimmed your nails then buffed away raw edges."  My mother moved to me, kissed the straight and thin strands of hair, then turned to leave.  She knew that whatever I decided to do couldn't be done in front of an authority figure, for to don the hose would be following advice and few teens want to show that, but she also knew that I understood about money and waste.
    "See you."  My voice called but my hand was still holding up the stocking.  The non-sheer welt was thick in diameter so garters could grab but not tear.  I made a face at the hose, angry with it for now having a blemish.  Then, run and all, put my foot into it and pulled it up my leg.

    "Too bad tights aren't able to be worn inside out," I answered my daughter, knowing that five year old girls don't care if hose-runs change sides so it appears they've ruined two separate pairs.  Then continued, "I'll find another brand and send out another Grandma-package."
    "Wish you could find washable silk, Mom.  Think stockings will ever be made of that?"


©1996 Robin's Nest Pometaphysics Publishing
reprinted: April 2015    Clear Mt. Syndicate

​

“Thumb tack,” I noted, “not thumb drive.”  Any word-association game that gave the word ‘thumb’ first would be followed by ‘drive’ for the portable flash inserted into a computer’s slot as a back-up for data or photos.

“Know what a push-pin is?”  I questioned, then seeing a nod.  “Before push-pins on bulletin boards, thumb tacks were used.  They were flat, came in colors, much shorter metal insertion point.”

Memory brought to the surface uses and people-connections associated with the tiny object.
Pre-teen, my parents gave me a wood dressing-table putting a triple mirror on top.  The sturdy legs didn’t fit with the yellow roses on the wallpaper, so my mother took sheer material, lined it with white sheet cotton, and sewed a skirt for the table.  Sliding several thumb tacks under the lining, so none would show, she pushed the points and they held the fabric perfectly in place.  The pretty gathers at the top gave the skirt a graceful look as it billowed slightly before reaching the floor.

I’d embroidered tablecloths, napkins, pillow covers, and such with cross-stitch strokes and wanted to learn needlepoint.  I’d been sitting on the piano-bench seat covered with my mother’s needlepoint wool and wanted to learn the technique.  She got me yarn, and canvas and taught me the method.  The rectangle was finished and misshapen from my handwork, and I learned, from her, how to block it.  We took the Long Island Railroad from our house in the North Shore of Long Island into the city, went to Macy’s on 34th Street, and she found an oak footstool with decorative curved legs.  We carried it home; she removed the top of the stool where screws had affixed the manufacturer’s material, and put my handwork in place.  With thumb tacks, she secured the undersides of my needlepoint to the wood piece, then put the top back into the footstool’s frame, and re-screwed it securely.

People collect items from travel as possible reminders of time and place; my older son did such with felt banners especially from sporting events.  Almost one wall of his bedroom had closets with sliding all-wood doors, and, with thumb tacks, each pennant was displayed. Guests would criticize: didn’t I realize I was ruining the closet doors, scarring the wood, affecting the surface forever.  Forever seemed like a strange word when growing years are so short. Pieces of his life were there in color and texture, and each helped make his room ‘his’.  After he married, I removed each, touched the tiny holes where every indent had been important to him, then had the doors sanded and stained.  Why did people have to voice negative opinions as there were years of pleasure, and so easily erased with sandpaper when the tangible was no longer important! Thumb tacks were flat and the sliding doors were free to move. The fancy push-pins today would not have allowed that as the pin itself projects too much.

My mother showed me how to take wire to frame a picture, and secure, with thumb tacks, the flexible metal to the back of the wood, then hang the picture.  Amazing.  So much easier than my struggle to screw the wire-holders in place as they were so very tiny and hard to even hold with my fingers.  When I stretched my own art canvas before doing an oil painting, and ran out of staples generally used to affix the canvas to the wooden stretchers, she pulled out her box of thumb tacks and fixed the problem.

My parents’ philosophy and practice that people-not-things-were-important caused me to disregard the judgmental guests who thought I was defacing my property by allowing the sports’ banners on a closet, and my mother’s knack of solving problems with at-hand items I passed to my daughter. 

The small portable external drive for my computer is my ‘flash’; the word ‘thumb’ is still connected to ‘tack’.


©2018 The Jewish Press
reprinted Dec. 2019 Clear Mountain Syndicate

​

​Ada turned off the television—she couldn’t take it any longer. Just on and on over the pandemic. Washing hands adverts and rising figures couldn’t take off what was on her mind.
Before the lockdown, she had travelled to Lagos to see her daughter. Things were not so serious then. Bus prices were still regular and one could hug somebody without much thought. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t aware of what was happening in the country. The virus was just heard but never felt.
She had planned a surprise birthday for her daughter’s twentieth birthday party. Mama wanted to come along, but she couldn’t allow her. Mama was too old. She needed to stay home where she could have rest.
No need to punish her with Lagos toxic pollution and hyperactivity.
Who knows what could happen if her body couldn’t handle it? Ada stocked up the freezer. Gave her the new blankets to cover up if the air was too frigid. She bought extra petrol. She told Mama that Chike, the neighbour next door, could put the generator on for her and to meet him in case of any emergencies. She would spend a week with Chioma and return back home soonest.
“Nne1, go in peace,” Mama said.
She would stay in Chioma’s room for the week. She couldn’t wait to see her only child. Her father had left before she was ten. She and Mama were the only immediate family that she had, and she wouldn’t miss that day for anything.
 But now, if only she hadn’t missed that day.
If only she hadn’t boarded the bus. If only she hadn’t left one family member for the other. The night after the mad party—her daughter’s words—she listened to the news and heard words she never thought of.
“Due to the recent increase in the number of COVID-19 cases in Lagos state, the Lagos state government has imposed a lockdown on the state…” the newscaster said.
 At first, Ada didn’t understand the direct implications of that statement. If she had understood fully, she would have tried to get home sooner. One couldn’t blame her; she only had an SSCE certificate and had left school for over two decades. For then, it meant more time with her daughter in her self-contain room. It had taken a chunk out of her savings, but she wanted the best comfort for her daughter’s tertiary education.
After two days of eating cake and several Tv2 shows, they finally clicked. Whether it was NCDC’s constant reminder to wash your hands and apply sanitiser or the free text messages that Grandma was not responding to.  Ada knew something was wrong with her other family member. It wasn’t a week yet, though.
She tried calling Mama. At least she knew how to pick up a phone call.
“Just swipe the green icon, mama.” Chioma continually taught her. But it wasn’t going through. She called Chike to check in on her, but he said the door was locked. She wanted to call some of her friends also, but they had announced a lockdown even in Rivers. Nobody dared going out without a concrete reason, especially when two hotels had been demolished.
She couldn’t leave her mother alone. She alone had the spare key, and she knew she had to get back home immediately. And that was when the full impact of the lockdown hit her.
 She barely managed to get to the bus park. Tricycles and motorbikes were increasing their prices. She approached a bus conductor “Oga,3 where are the buses for Port-Harcourt?”
“Which buses? Don’t you know Rivers is on lockdown also? This buses here are either going to Ogun state or Oyo state”.
“Any other south-south state?”
“Are you entering or not madam? I’ve told you where the buses are going to. Don’t let the police catch me”.
 “Sorry, sir”.
I am done for.
 She tried online. Maybe she could order a cab and take her straight home. It might be costly, but it was the only choice now. Life was worth more than money.
“Dear valued customer, we are sorry to inform you that all our transport services are currently shut down due to the COVID-19 pandemic. We are concerned more about your safety. Stay safe at all cost”. Every one of them said the same thing. Was COVID-19 this serious?
She even tried the seaport. It wasn’t exactly the fastest way, but it was a way. Before she could even get to Apapa, she had almost been beaten by a police officer.
“Madam there is a lockdown stay in your house.  Stop the spread, there are already more than twenty cases recorded. Stay at home.”
She had tried replying him but had to dodge his baton instead.
She had to go back to the room e. Back to the start point.
“Mummy how far, any chance?”
Ada didn’t know what to reply to her daughter. Walking and flying were out of the options. Her limited options were already gone. She had limited money with her. Most of it had gone to the inflated okada4 prices. Would she even able to take care of herself and her daughter at least? Was there anything else she could do to get home? Chike’s line wasn’t even going through again. He probably had his own family to take care of. If things remained like this, there would be zero chance for Mama to be alive.
Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
If there was anything, she could do. If she was in charge, she would remove the restriction on movement and rush home to Mama, but that would be selfish. She knew that much from her SSCE biology that it would spread the virus faster. What she would have needed was Data. Facts. Information. Emergency routes and those that needed to move. A hotline would be opened for complaints. No matter what happened, the channel would be opened twenty-four hours straight and be toll-free. Even “Ma’am we promise to get back to you as soon as possible. Till then stay safe and take care” from customer care could be soothing at least. Transportation would mostly be by cabs stationed in the testing centres. And needed supplies could be dispersed by dispatch riders and those okada riders. At least let the okada riders have some supplies. Their poor families made up most of the Nigerian population. But she snapped out of it.
I am not in charge.
 “I don’t know my daughter. I don’t know. All we can do now is pray and comply with NCDC’s regulation. Maybe, just maybe we would get through this”.
INDEX

1. Nne - Igbo. My daughter
2. Tv – Short form. Television.
3. Oga- Pidgin. Boss, Head.
4. Okada- Pidgin. Motorbike

 
 

Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Birmingham Arts Journal.  He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB).​​

​I do not have a belief in a higher order.  I do not believe in God or Jesus.  Atheism works for me in general.
Science is my belief system.  I believe in evolution and the Big Bang.  These work for me greatly.
Atheism is practiced by certain people.  They feel no need to believe in God.  This is just the way it is for them.
I never liked going to church.  Nothing really has changed for me because of religion.  This is how I feel about this.
Religion has a certain meaning for people.  This is not the case for me, and it has been this way for as long as I can remember.
There are others who are atheists.  This is not a bad thing, but others believe in God.  I believe whatever way works for people.
I like to believe in something I can see.  I have never seen or spoken to God and never will.  So why should I believe in God.
Believe in what you want to.  It is up to you and that is how it should be.  Religion should never be forced on a person.
            Take care for now and be good.  This is all one can ask for as COVID-19 continues as time passes.  A cure in the works would be fantastic as time carries forward now and into the future.